Bound: Part III - Fulcrum
by Darkflame's Pyre
Summary: Space is immeasurable and endless, but is also finite and wholly intrinsic in how we live our lives. From birth we are perched upon a set of scales… the greatest fear we have is knowing whether or not the odds will stay within our favour. The final instalment in the 'Bound' Series. Rated on the upper end of T for some scattered coarse language and distressing themes. Movie-verse.
1. Measuring Time

**A/N: Okay, so I thought that I was going to be able to get a fairly detailed, long piece uploaded for this target, but seeing as my course load is still rather unpredictable, and my promised limit for an update is looming, I figured that I'd post this part and get you lot thinking about the story a little bit. I'm in the process of writing out the second chapter (getting somewhere too, with much relief), but in the meantime, here's a short bit to tide you over until I can get that together.**

**Last thing; a warning…. **_**DO NOT READ THIS FIC IF YOU HAVE NOT READ THE PREVIOUS TWO PARTS! **_**You will be both epically confused and will have just spoiled things for yourself, do you wish to read this arc in its entirety. I'm weird for separating this, I know, but just bear with me. Heed all warnings in italics and bold, they mean something, 'kay? ^_^**

**Disclaimer: If not for Gerry and Sylvia Anderson, I would not be able to play in this wonderful playground, so no, I do not own the Thunderbirds.**

**Also, in addition, any references to medical information is only found on the web, and any errors and discrepancies in the items used are purely my own.**

**Enjoy. Xx**

_Space is immeasurable and endless, but is also finite and wholly intrinsic in how we live our lives. From birth we are perched upon a set of scales; the tiniest, most insignificant details are often the ones that create the fine line between life and death. The greatest fear we have is knowing whether or not the odds will stay within our favour. That is something I know only too well._

_Unless you can truly comprehend how frightening it is to know that you're living on borrowed time; that the second chance you got earlier in your life might just have used up all of your luck, then you've no idea how it feels to know you're dying, and there's just not one damn thing you can do about it. _

_You hear all this hippy-dippy crap about being strong, and focusing on the positives rather than the negatives, and just believing you can do it, but let's see you try it when you're scared shitless and so frigging sick of being tired and sore and ill that you actually want it to end just to get relief from the never-ending misery. _

_I hate psychobabble for a reason. It always comes from the people who don't have the faintest idea of what it is they're rambling about, or if they have had the misfortune to have experienced an illness such as this, they've been able to forget through time and dulling of knowing exactly how scary it is to be in this sort of situation, to know how Goddamn annoying it is. It's not that I'm begrudging them their triumph or that feeling of euphoric success, not in the slightest, but it's just that you actually have to be living in the moment to truly appreciate exactly how a person is feeling when they're fighting a war for their life._

_It sucks._

##

_This is so great!_

Seven weeks following my relapse diagnosis, three weeks after being admitted for surgery (plus a potentially lethal infection), and three days after being informed of the tentatively-approached, positively frightening news of a possible cure, and I'm finally being sprung from the hospital.

Sure, it's a half-victory at the most, seeing as I'll be returning in two weeks' time to undergo the irradiation chemotherapy to prepare me for transplant, but it is a fortnight of time where I'm going to be free from feeling so damn sick.

I'm still far from a hundred per cent; more like seventy-five-and-counting (and that's subtracting the underlying cause for all this stuff in the first place), but at the same time, I'm feeling better than I have been for quite some time. I've still got a fairly barking, deep cough, and I'm apparently running a low-grade fever, but all in all, it's accumulated enough of a good tilt to my state of health, that I'm being allowed to head home.

My side is almost completely back to normal, aside from the occasional deep pull if I twist too sharply, and the throb that emanates from the surface along the line of the scar, but I'm particularly surprised at how eager I am to be getting out of here, really… well not completely, as I'm looking forward to being home at the farm and actually being able to do something besides sleep and rest.

I'll still be doing a fair bit of resting, because I'm still recovering from major surgery, and I'm pretty bone-tired from the radiation therapy I started the day before yesterday, but I don't currently have a headache, nor am I puking. I consider the fact I'm going home (with the anticipation of a fortnight's equal to a holiday from school (in Alan's eyes at least)), a pretty big deal in the grand scheme of All That is Awesome.

The only issue is getting Doctor Kingston and my dratted discharge papers to actually make their way to my room.

I've clearly been hanging around with both Alan and Gordon for far too long, because I'm swinging my feet rather over-enthusiastically. I'm doubly pleased, because I'm actually wearing something other than socks or slippers for once, and in my distracted excitement, what makes me even giddier, somehow, is that for some reason, I'm over-examining them rather intently.

Odd, yes I know, but what would you be doing if you were staging what was the (least subtle in history) equivalent to a prison break? I'm a little bored, and more than overly keyed up, okay?

I've got my old Harvard sweater on, (it's more than a mite too big, considering how tiny an a amount of mass I've got on me at the moment, but I don't care, because it's comfortable and warm and I don't like the cold), and a pair of jeans that Dad went and bought me, along with a whole bagful of other clothes, because even with the teensy amount of weight I've managed to gain while in here, I'm much too far below the level I should be for someone of my height. It's good, the sense of normality the clothes are giving me, like the shoes.

I sigh. I'm stuck back on them again, but it's funny, because unlike the jeans, or even the hoodie, which I got my third year at college, the Keds I'm wearing are at least six years old, and well-worn. I guess I'm not the only Tracy to hang onto items of clothing, but damn I love these shoes.

They're rather cleaner than they've been in the entire time they've been in my possession, but they're still fairly raggedy and faded; the dark-grey washed out to a dirty-dishwater colour and the laces rather frayed and cut-ended. Unlike my brothers, who wore (wear) holes in their footwear so fast they need(ed) a new set every two months or so, I didn't play sport or rough-house as much as them, and so was (and am) able to hang on to my stuff for longer.

Biting my lip in amusement at myself, I shake my head. Here I am, musing about the average length of time for possession of shoes per Tracy, when I'm supposed to be getting out of here!

I've obviously let off a rather more expressive sigh than the ones beforehand, because Dad, leaning with his arms crossed at the foot of my bed, talking with Scott, who's standing propped against the wall, one foot up behind him to brace himself, looks over at me with a half-confused expression on his face. It clears up instantly as my eyes dart back towards the door, and Scott lets out a chuckle.

"Hey, John?" He snickers. "You heard of the phrase 'a watched pot never boils'? Try 'an anticipated doctor never arrives.'"

Cute Scott. I've had the opposite and it's not so hilarious then thanks.

I roll my eyes and ignore my idiot of an older brother, who has only recently managed to locate his sense of humour._ Why me, again? Big brothers suck._

I have to second-think my first thought there though, because of the way the past few weeks have been for my father and brothers, I'm lucky that I'm even here for him to poke fun at. And as far as what it was they'd experienced while I was near-comatose with fever, I'm inclined to let them joke as much as they like at my expense, much as it drives me crazy.

I've been determinedly ignoring the reasons why I'll be coming back here in a couple of weeks' time; the base reason for the return is so we can hopefully address the relapsed original cancer, but also in order to combat the secondary cancer that necessitated the surgery I'd undergone. When I'd been at a state of function that enabled me to absorb more complicated information and conversational nuances, they'd taken the chance to explain in a bit more depth about the mass that had rested behind my lung for God-knows how long before it had been discovered.

It's still a form of Non-Hodgkin's Lymphoma, but thankfully, though it's fairly fast growing, it's still a more-treatable type, compared to the base disease I'm already suffering from.

I was still in a little bit of shock that the initial scans and the intensive barrage of tests I'd undergone back in March had missed the tumour, and I was also fairly confused as to why I'd not shown any symptoms until it was nearly too late. When I'd broached the subject with Doctor Kingston though, he'd explained to me that there was no way it could have been found unless we'd begun the tests with the knowledge to look for it.

The absence of symptoms in particular was (and still is) puzzling to me, but my doctor explained that due to the anomalous effects my tenures in 'Five's artificial atmosphere have on my body, coupled with the injuries I'd suffered in the missile blast, my system had had no way to tell me that there was something wrong. He had also said that bodies just react in different ways to one another, and my nerves and pain reactors might have just been so muted that they had at first thought that there was nothing there to respond to. He'd said that it could be a possible side-effect of my first course of chemotherapy as well. I understood.

It's given me a sense of relief that it was nothing I or my medical team had done to miss it, but it was still a small comfort when it had hit me how doubly hard this stage of the war was going to be.

It probably sounds pretty silly; me referring to the disease and the opposition it's putting towards me as a war for my life, but it really makes me feel that though it could appear that I may appear to be losing, that should this treatment not work, I can still try and convince myself that I've done the best I can to get past it.

It's the whole psychology of the thing, really, and through my life, I've become a pro at being able to convince myself for a temporary time to pretend that nothing is happening in order to cope. It's why I've had so many scattered episodes of emotion, that and you very quickly get used to these sorts of situations.

I've gone back to staring wistfully at the corridor beyond the door; freedom, finally, still awaiting. My family haven't had to wear the masks around me for the last day and a half, but I'll be wearing one anytime I venture outside the house (or hospital for that matter; there's one sitting on the nightstand right now), for the foreseeable future to prevent me from getting sick with anything before I'm due to come back in.

I'm so eager to get home, dammit, but of course; time is going ever more slowly than usual just because John Tracy wants to hurry up and get somewhere! Five minutes until I can leave!

I can see Scott and Dad exchanging grins over my impatience from the corner of my eye; I've finally regained my glasses, permanently (they don't want me wearing contacts because they're afraid they'll pose an infection-risk), and so it's much of a relief to be able to see my surroundings clearly without them swishing blurrily along like I'm trying to focus underwater.

Let them laugh. I know that they and the others are just as eager to have me back as I am to be escaping. They might try to deny it, but I know better.

I'm packed and everything; my small kit-bag settled on the bed at my hip, my Grandad-painted MENSA cap on my fuzz-balled head, and my hands tucked deep in my sweater pockets.

I grumble beneath my breath and flop backwards on the bed, with no heed for my aching-but-no-longer-seizing back, and roll my eyes at the ceiling, wanting very much in my really weird but amazingly centering mood to stamp my feet and grump like a little kid.

A smirk crosses my face at the imagination of the look on my father and brother's faces if I am to actually to do that, before I peer around my own skinny chest and folded arm to peer at the hallway, again.

Nope, still empty of all Doctor-kind.

_Dammit. _

Waiting _really _sucks.

**A/N: Reviewsies for this new instalment? Please? I'll try extra hard for the next chapter. I know this was short; I'm still fleshing out intermission-airy scenes for later on. :D**

**Thanks for reading, you lot. I really appreciate it. **

**- Pyre. Xx**


	2. A Stop in the Road

**A/N: New chapter; finally, finally, finally! Uni is over for a month, so that means I'll hopefully get a fair few bits and pieces written and updated over that time. A little bit of a warning for this chapter, just because things get a bit heavy, in a way that might possibly startle you all a bit, but it's hardly unexpected… Anyway. :D**

**Thanks for all the reviews for the previous chapter. I really appreciate all the support, all the way through my writing of this story. We're getting into the long, hard slog where John is concerned, but I'm trying to keep a balance within chapters, just so things aren't too overwhelming for myself as writer, and you guys as readers. **

**Here we go. **

**Disclaimer: If not for Gerry and Sylvia Anderson, I would not be able to play in this wonderful playground, so no; I do not own the Thunderbirds.**

The head rush comes swiftly and unexpectedly; belated and disorienting from my most recent movement.

The world greys out and a buzzing starts in my ears as I grab for stability on the only-just-made bed, and close my eyes; waiting for it to pass. It's been happening frequently, apparently because I'm getting used to moving about again. The first few trips I took around the ward were certainly interesting, because I could barely stand, let alone walk in anything resembling a straight line. Dad and Virgil's arms definitely got a workout on those occasions.

I feel firm hands –Scott's, with the feeling of the plaster cast– grab my shoulders to stop me flailing too badly. Despite that, the movement still lets loose a lance of pain down my bad side, and I clench my teeth against the still-healing, formerly-separated ribs as they complain under the strain of moving. It only takes up a few seconds of my decidedly-spotty concentration in reality, but in my mind, it still seems to take forever. It passes though, eventually, and having robbed me of my little bit of adrenaline, it just leaves me feeling tired and drained in the aftermath.

I close my eyes, and hate my stupid body for attacking me like this. I want to sleep, but at the same time, not. I'm doing that particular thing far too much, but simultaneously, my biologic systems insist that it's nowhere near enough for what it needs to try and repair itself. But with the amount of pain that I'm constantly in, all over my body; inside and out, it's just so hard to keep going, and put one foot in front of another on the road that leads to either salvation… or Hell.

Now I'm past the fogginess that my almost-gone infection left lingering, I know perfectly well what the coming months are going to bring, and there's absolutely no guarantee at all that despite the positives that this trial brings to the table, I'm going to survive this. My mind is a slave to my body right now and there's absolutely nothing I can do to rectify that, save refuse all and any treatment, and off myself when I get the chance and means to do so.

Believe me, I'm well aware that is the last thing my family wants to happen, me die in any sense of the word; whether by the disease or by my own hand, but really, I only accepted the treatment for my relapse in the first place because I just couldn't bear to see the distress on my family's faces if I had told them I didn't want it.

The past month has been complete hell for me, and even though I'm improving steadily in terms of not having to be in the hospital, the reality of the situation is that I'm still going far downhill in terms of the lymphoma. I'm terrified that I'm not going to weather the storm.

I'm in pain, continuously, annoyingly nauseous, and I'm on so many different pills and drugs that I'm practically a walking drugstore, and that's even without the chemotherapy medications that will be added to that very long list in the coming fortnight. I'm scared, I'm terrifyingly frightened, and trying my hardest not to show any of it to my family, because I know exactly how much this is hurting them, seeing me like this.

I know that I'm still not getting half of the situation, even with the clarity that the receding of the pneumonia has given me, and I know that it's my choice to block it out, no-one else's, but my family are not the ones facing the potential death sentence, it's me, and me alone. Even though I can tell that they're being ripped to pieces seeing me so ill, they can't honestly stand there and say that they understand what it is I'm dealing with right now.

I'm not circling the drain yet: I'm still kicking, still fighting (or at least trying), but I have to admit that these moments of clarity I'm having aren't helping me at all in trying to stay positive. The fact that my family isn't coping with the situation either (though they're trying to tell me otherwise), is enough to scare me even more.

My eyes blink open to see Scott's purple-blue ones looking down at me with concern, and I lift an eyebrow sardonically as he asks me if I'm quite alright.

"Yep." I say, almost-cheerfully, covering my maudlin mood. "Head rush."

Apparently, that explains everything, because my brother puts out his un-casted arm to give me a hand up. I grab it with my left hand, using my right elbow to gently lever myself into a seated position.

He'll be wearing it for at least the next three weeks, meaning no driving; which makes me laugh, considering the arguments he and Dad have over the steering wheel in the times they're both in the car. I never bothered to get my licence, preferring to take public transport, so it's more or less just a whole bundle of amusement for me, watching the two of them bicker.

Being the overly excited idiot he's been all morning, Scott snaps his hand out and flips my cap backwards off my forehead; his fingers rasping along the barely-there stubble on my cheeks that matches the fine hairs where my eyebrows are thickening again. I'm enjoying having it far too much to have shaved it off this morning, which makes me happy, like the shoes did.

The absence of the chemotherapy drugs in my system for the last few weeks has allowed the fine hairs to make a tentative reappearance, and I am determined to allow them to linger before they fall out again. Makes me look raggedy and unkempt, but I really can't bring myself to care. I feel too tired and exhausted to much worry about the fact that I look like something that's been dragged backwards through the hedgerow.

I shoot Scott a moody, half-irritated glare as I pull my hat back down over my eyes, glancing sideways as I hear Dad's soft chuckles at our antics. I know exactly what Scott's aim is in keeping me distracted, but I really don't care, because it's definitely working in helping me not to focus on the fact that the doctor still hasn't arrived with my release forms. Obviously there's been a hold-up of some description, but it doesn't do my nerves any good when I so badly want to get back to the homestead and my three younger brothers.

Oh, wait, that would be two; Alan's at Grandma's with Fermat, the Kyranos and Brains, studying again. Virge and Gordon in turn are back at the farmhouse, probably working on assignments of their own; away from the hyperactivity of the three younger ones. Gordon asked me this morning actually, if I could help him with an item on one of his; a mathematical section most likely, but he's not explained exactly what it is to me yet. I said I would, if I could, and if I wasn't too tired, that is.

I rub my eyes beneath my glasses, and try my hardest not to yawn. It's only just midday, but I'm so ready for a nap right now, it's not funny. It doesn't look like I'll be able to honour that particular request. Not unless I can get a few hours of shut-eye first.

I settle sleepily against Scott, where he's gone and propped himself up against the pillow-headboard. It's not usual for me to be so affectionate and initiate contact in this way, but I guess my brother could tell that my energy is flagging, and heck; I'll definitely take the waiting time to doze if I can. No point delaying the inevitable, after all.

They can carry me to the car if they have to. Time to sleep.

##

I realise that that is exactly what happened, when I wake up on the sofa at home.

I remember a vague impression of shifting and the faces of my older brother and father, but I can't recall any movements of my own that might have led me to getting here. Oh well.

I notice both that the lights are off, and that I'm warm and comfortable as I open my eyes; the pale sunlight filtering through the tiny gap in the drawn curtains behind the couch. I can feel the heaviness of a sleep-ache weighing down my head, so I close my eyes again and try to will it away. I'm distracted from that endeavour however, by the realisation that there's someone quite near to where I'm curled up. Though I clearly didn't see them when I had my eyes open that first time, they've obviously been sitting there for a while.

I inch my eyelids open again, braving the possibility of a true skull-crusher evolving, to satisfy the curiosity I'm feeling as to who it is sharing my temporary sanctuary.

It's Gordon, I discover; sitting quietly and unusually still on the armchair closest to the sofa, using the dim glow of a clip-light to see the text on the pages of the rather thick book balanced on his lap.

I've not moved in any way, other than opening my eyes, so the time of non-disturbance leaves me able to study my little brother's features in the dimness of the lounge. His hair is curling softly over his forehead, like it used to do when he was small, before he'd gone and shorn it off for his swim-meets and later, IR; and his green eyes are focused intently on his book. He's squinting a bit, which I know isn't good for him (even though he'd supposedly grown out of having to wear his spectacles), and he's muttering beneath his breath as he tears a bit of post-it sheet off the pad beside him, sliding it between the pages of the tome before he flips it over to the next spread.

I smile softly in affection; relaxing deeper into the pillows and waking up rather rapidly, despite my initial intentions of further sleep.

"Hey Gords… What're you up to?"

I don't intend to make him jump, but my brother startles anyway as I whisper hoarsely through the huskiness in my voice, his head whipping towards me as his book tumbles to the floor with a muffled thump.

"Hey," I caution, as he goes to lunge for it, watching him flinch as he moves too fast. "Take it easy. The book's okay, I'm sorry."

Gordon grunts noisily, rubbing his lower back and stretching his legs from where he's been curled up into the corner of the armchair. "You could've warned me John." He grumbles. "How is it that you move silently, even when you're half asleep?"

I grin slightly ruefully. "You actually have to move to 'move silently' Gords. All I did was talk."

And it's true too. I'm so comfortable that I'm kind of afraid to move because I know that all my normal aches will flare into life again, and I'm quite enjoying the respite from any sort of pain. Even my ribs aren't hurting at the moment, but I know that once I begin moving my chest for anything other than breathing, they'll be complaining all over again.

"In answer to your question," My younger brother says, reaching down to retrieve his book properly. "… I'm bookmarking notes for this assignment I have to do. I'm going to ask Dad if I can borrow the SUV to head over to the back paddock tomorrow and set up my vegetation site. I just need someone to help me make sure the parameters are right for it; you know how much I suck at mathematical equations. You still up for helping me? I know you can't come out with me or anything, but I can take the cam out with me, and we can use the up-link on my cell for you to give me directions..."

I feel a little upset that Gordon is being so tentative with me, but it's understandable, given how unwell I am. I nod anyway, grinning assuredly at him; glad that I'm not being treated like a piece of glass. He's the one brother, more than the others who understands exactly how I'm feeling right now in terms of independence.

"Sure." I tell him, and despite the dimness of the room, my brother obviously picks up on my enthusiasm for the project from that single word. He grins brightly at me, and I figure it's time to take a chance on disturbing my body's tentative peace and actually get up and move somewhere before I either get sick of staring at the same four walls, or else develop cramps in unfortunate places.

I uncurl myself from underneath the thick blanket that someone has piled on top of me, and slowly stretch out my limbs to get rid of any kinks that may have accumulated while I slept. I shiver a little as the outside air intrudes, but I quickly get used to it, in spite of the shivers from my continuous fever.

My throat is dry and thick with sleep, and I have to cough, despite my reservations, to be able to swallow enough to moisten it. It hurts my torso, but not unbearably so; although it does leave me with a disgusting mouthful of grot and nowhere to spit it, at least until Gordon suddenly relocates through time and space to offer me a tissue from the table behind my head.

He's turned the lamp there on as well, so I can see him as I wipe my mouth, and I gratefully take his hand as he offers me a quick way up off the couch. I realise, oddly, that there's absolutely no sound coming from anywhere past the half-open living room door, and it makes me wonder where on earth the rest of the family are. The farmhouse isn't anywhere near as big or soundproofed as the villa, and it's just plain disconcerting that there is nothing to be heard from the rest of the house, save for mine and Gordon's movements.

I get the feeling of a vague sense of déjà vu. I take a minute to get my bearings, and I suddenly place it as being from back when we were still on the island, and Alan was 'John Watching', but it didn't quite go according to plan. God, it seems like absolutely forever ago, but it's really only a month past.

I quirk a questioning glance at Gordon as we begin a slow trek across the lounge and towards the combined kitchen-dining area, and he seems to realise without me having to verbalise the question, what it is I'm asking about.

"Dad took Alan to the orthodontist's place for his retainer fitting, and Scott and Grandma went down to get some groceries for supper. She said that with all six of us in the house there's no way there's going to be enough food for us to survive two days without a trip into town." We share a smirk, knowing both Scott and Virgil's propensity of eating three to four fillings of whatever meal it is at any sitting. "They left about an hour ago; they'll be the first ones back, probably."

I nod, sinking into one of the dining chairs as we finally make it to our destination. I'm still clad in my clothes from this morning, minus the shoes –which did make it a little more difficult to stay steady on the hardwood floors– but I've never really liked wearing shoes unless I really have to, so it's not much of a loss that they've been removed, in my eyes.

I've caught my breath now, and I look around the kitchen, slightly puzzled as I try to work out exactly why I've allowed Gordon to steer me in here, and why I don't think I remember Gordon mentioning Virge at all. My first query is answered by the glass of water that makes its way into my field of vision, the second by Gordon himself, reading my mind again.

"Virge is upstairs somewhere." He tells me, quietly. "He's not admitted it to anyone, least of all me, but I can kind of tell he's not feeling well, even without asking. He's just sort of been drinking a lot of water again, and he went up and locked himself in his room about an hour ago. I think he's working on his assignments, but I'm not entirely sure." Gordon shrugs his shoulders. "I'm worried about him, but at the same time, I know that I can't push him. I know what he's feeling, and I just… I want to help, but I want to respect him at the same time. Know what I mean?"

I'm a little surprised to have Gordon flood his emotions on me like this, but he's obviously been bottling them up a little, and I guess that him spilling this bit about his feelings towards Virgil's situation is what he needs to allow himself to cope with things.

I don't react in any way other than to nod to acknowledge that he's been speaking, but from the way he smiles at me across the table, Gordon knows what I'm getting at even without me having to say anything. It's good, because it means that even though we're all dancing around each other like this; bits of conversation and deep-and-meaningfuls scattered all over places and through time, we're still supporting each family member as we all go along this road we've been directed on, and that idea in particular makes me pretty pleased, for now.

Gordon and I drift into a peaceful silence, and I realise just how much I've missed hanging out with my second-youngest brother. It's peaceful, despite the lingering worries and terror of my predicament, and the dark, oppressive thoughts of earlier today. It's a balm, almost, the companionship he and I are sharing right now, and I find myself nearly drifting off again as I lay my head on my arms; soaking in the temporary silence and the serenity it brings.

It's what I've needed, for a while it appears; a chance at some form of normalcy, and some one-on-one time that doesn't have to contain pressing questions and impatience. Gordon can be impulsive and overly hyperactive at times, but when he feels the need to think and reflect, he and I are amazingly alike.

We're still sitting there when the doorbell rings to announce the return of the rest of our family, and I find I'm much more at ease than I have been for a while.

I breathe in slowly, and stretch again, even as Gordon springs out of stillness and back into action; jogging down the hallway to get the door. It's a lapse in time; to just coast and breathe. No thought, no emotion. Just two brothers, sitting and relaxing still, even as the chaos of our family resumes.

**A/N: Thanks for reading guys! Please don't hesitate to let me know what you think. Take care all.**

**- Pyre. Xx **


	3. Disclosure

**A/N: New chapter, and extra-long for the extended wait. Thanks for the reviews as usual. There are some things in this chapter that you might expect, and some you won't and I'd love any guesses as to what you think some of the little hints and clues might be leading to.**

**Disclaimer: If not for Gerry and Sylvia Anderson, I wouldn't be able to play in this wonderful playground so no; I do not own the Thunderbirds.**

**Enjoy!**

Still swimming in leftover puddles of sleep, I'm not really paying attention when I hear returning footsteps.

A hand settles on my left shoulder, coming from behind, and I jump about a foot into the air as I react, cursing beneath my breath as I start in surprise; nearly slipping off my chair until I catch myself painfully on the table.

At first, I'm afraid that my fright will force me into a paroxysm of coughing and spasming chest, but I'm pleased to find that a wheezing gasp of shock is all that results.

The hand, sharper and smaller to those of my brothers, suddenly smacks into the back of my head, and I bite my tongue hard, as I realise exactly who it is behind me, and why exactly they're slapping me.

"Ow! Grandma!" I yelp, turning around in my seat to look at her; trying not to pout like Alan as I rub my palm against the back of my head. "I've got a headache! What was that for?"

She raises an eyebrow at me, the look in her eye that means she's not in a concession-friendly mood translating bright and clear onto her face.

"You know perfectly well 'what-for', Johnny Glenn! I didn't teach any of you boys that sort of language, and I really don't think your papa did either! Don't let me hear those words spit outta your mouth and then you won't get a palm upside the thinker!"

My mouth twists in resignation as I nod in response, and I level a scorching glare across at Scott, where he's snickering at my predicament. He only smirks widely at me as he dumps the shopping parcels on the table, and then abruptly busies himself with setting on the coffee-pot to hide from any retribution I might get away with.

"Sorry Grandma… Oh be quiet, you!" I grumble, noticing Gordon's gleeful expression.

"I'm not saying a word Johnny." My brother assures me, but I know the words that are running behind those eyes of his. I know him far too well to think otherwise.

I'm glad that Grandma is treating me like she would the others when they're misbehaving (even Scott gets on the wrong side of her temper at times) even in spite of my illness, but the back of my head is still stinging. She gives me a pointed look, tinged with amusement, and picks up the bag of laundry items that were with the rest of the groceries, before heading out of the room.

Still furiously rubbing the back of my skull through the material of my hat, I reach out for the half-drained glass of water, and gulp it down before levering myself to my feet to stumble across the room to place it in the sink.

With Scott still packed into the corner cubby where the pot is set up, I take my chances in leaning on my brother's arm to peer near-sightedly at his watch in an attempt to divine the approximate time of day, figuring he won't be able to move unexpectedly and dump me on my backside.

Okay, Four pm. Three hours sleep, not counting the time taken to trip home from the hospital, and the time I've been sitting in here… that's not bad considering how rubbish I feel. Nearly dinner time then.

I process that thought, and then I groan, realising what will be coming for me after the meal. The nebuliser treatment to clear my lungs has been extended to every five hours instead of every four, but I know that in compensation, the dosage has been upped to keep me going for the longer time period. Makes sense, but it's more annoying anyhow.

Rubbing the back of my neck to ease some of the tension curled there, I straighten up to make my way back to my seat; pleased to realise that my feet are feeling a little more steady against the cool, grey-tiled floor. I feel Gordon's eyes boring into my back as he makes a drink at the sink, but I make it to my destination without hassle, resting my head on my arms again and watching Scott incredulously as he almost inhales his drink.

"You know, Scott," I murmur, eyeing Gordon as he curses - burning his fingers while picking up his mug (pretty stupid when you take your cocoa with no milk, idiot). "You'd probably find you sleep better if you didn't drink so much goddamn coffee."

In the midst of taking another large gulp of his probably lava-temp drink, Scott raises his eyebrows at me, before lifting his mug in a mockery of a toast to rich, roasted beans. Snark. "Bad habit John. You know that."

Yeah, I do know that. Scott's completely addicted to coffee. He's been drinking it since he was almost sixteen years old, but bad habits can be broken. Just like Dad and his cigarette smoking.

Took him two years and a mountain-load of patches and nicotine tubes, but it's amazing what five kids and a butt-load of persuasion can do when we want our parent to do something.

I tell Scott as much, but he just shrugs carelessly and changes the subject.

I roll my eyes but go with it as he goes on to grin at Gordon's stubble; the kid having clearly not bothered to shave the new sprouting this morning. It doesn't look quite as odd now that Gordon's got the bright red on his head to match, but it's still quite a shock against his pale skin.

Gordon rails back at him playfully, but I realise that my drink has posed the need for some pretty necessary actions. My first and third brothers just keep on bickering, so I lever myself quietly out of my seat, and wobble my way to the door; easing myself out into the hallway that leads to the foot of the stairs in the entry, and the stand-alone toilet nearest the front door.

It takes me longer than it should do, but I eventually finish, and am just about to head back to the kitchen when I hear soft footsteps padding down the hallway.

The hall is in shadow, so he doesn't see me, but I follow the form of my immediate younger brother with my eyes as he ducks into the downstairs bathroom, not far from where I'm standing. I find that I don't particularly like the hurried steps of his movement, or the sounds of low cursing that drift in his wake. I follow him despite the distance with minimum stumbling or dizziness, and lean tiredly against the doorjamb, digging my fingers into the wood to help me to stay upright.

"Virge?" My voice cracks as I don't quite get my shallow breath around the words, and I inadvertently startle my brother from what he's doing. "Are you alright?"

Even through his surprise, my younger brother barely spares me a glance from where he's hunched over at the basin. I'm confused, but no less concerned at what he's doing, and it isn't until Virgil reaches up to the twin-sided mirror above the sink that I see what the problem is.

His right hand is pressed against his torso as he reaches up to pull the Betadine and adhesive strips down from the shelf. There is blood over his fingers, and I wince, knowing precisely what has occurred, having had needles slip and catch a vein in an arm or stomach way too many times to count.

Moving as swiftly as I can, seeing how Virgil is struggling to hold his hand over the cut and stretch upwards at the same time, I reach up with my left arm to snag the items he needs.

Though the movement makes me slightly dizzy as I flatten my feet, I turn back to the basin and flip on the faucet, running a washcloth under the cold stream of water before turning toward Virgil and poking him in the ribs to get him to move his fingers.

The thin cut across the left side of his stomach —barely the length of a finger from tip to second joint— is already clotting, but I can see the fine sheen of sweat coating my brother's pale face, and I know that he's not dealing with the sight of the blood on his skin all that well.

He never has, but it's funny because other people's blood poses no issue for him. He's a medic-in-training and everything, Virgil, but the individual hematophobia is in part linked to his OCD, and it's not just the idea of uncleanliness that gets to him, but the fact that he can't control what happens if he's injured.

He's not normally half so anxious about it, being so calm and collected on rescues, but obviously the stress he's been under recently is making him more susceptible to the effects of his worries and fears.

I'm a little concerned as more and more situational anxieties are emerging in my younger brother, as he's not been this bad for years, but I promise myself that I'm going to keep an eye on him, no matter how badly I'm feeling, or alert Scott to the situation, at least.

Virgil's hands are gripping the edge of the counter; the knuckles turned white as I lean against the sink on my good side, but I'm happy to notice that my hands are steady and sure as I work, for once.

My brother relaxes noticeably as I finally smooth the sticking plaster over the skin, and I feel him grab my shoulder to keep me steady as I go to stand upright – he's back in control and calm once again.

I smile inwardly. We might struggle at times, but we 'pull up our socks and get on with it', as Grandma says; damning the consequences and possible ramifications as we go.

A nod of the head and a flash of gratitude flipped from one to the other is the only sort of acknowledgment that either of us have for the other's issues, and I realise that I have to remember to include Virgil on my list of _Those Who Get It_. I keep forgetting, silly me.

Damn the effing drugs.

Tamping down on momentary resentment, I quirk an eyebrow at my brother, questioning wordlessly as he supports me out of the bathroom.

He nods, taking the answering of my query a step further when he adds the words, including an explanation to account for his mad dash.

"I got the insulin in, but I wasn't perched on the bed properly. No balance plus sharp implement equals scratch."

I half go to tell him that he's being a smart ass, but then I grin at his stab at self-depreciating humour instead, despite the slight embarrassment at his perceived weakness evident in his voice.

"Thanks."

"Anytime, Little Brother."

He makes a face at the name, but otherwise ignores the fact that I've once again reminded him that I'm the older one out of the two of us, not him.

It's an ongoing battle, that one, and it's one that he's never going to win, no matter how many times he manages to fish me out of the fire; physically and otherwise.

We've made it out into the hallway by now, and as if hearing our footsteps, Scott pokes his head around the corner from the kitchen; his dark hair mussed and tousled around the top and back, with the cordless phone tucked beneath his ear and his fingers in the process of un-wrapping a granola bar.

I grin. The Bottomless Pit is at it again.

"Don't let Grandma see you eating now." Virgil tells Scott, evidently thinking the same thing. "It's nearly teatime, and you know she'll have your hide if she knows you're snacking so close to the meal."

"Don't sweat it." Our brother retorts, now tapping his fingers on the casing of the phone, but not before shoving the end of the opened bar into his mouth and taking a savage bite. "You worry too much Virge."

Virgil snorts with half-suppressed laughter. "Hello Pot, have you met Kettle?"

Scott doesn't answer him, but it's less the fact that he's ignoring Virgil, and more that the person on the other end of the line has picked up; for his attention is diverted as he suddenly heads off down the hallway, bumping me affectionately with his hip as he passes, though his voice is hoarse and whispered in his conversation. I cannot hear what he's saying, which frustrates me, and the look on Virgil's face tells me that he's got no idea what he's doing either.

I frown, wondering who it is and why exactly Scott is being so secretive, but then I get pretty distracted by the fact that my feet have suddenly flown from beneath me.

Accompanied by pitching walls and simultaneously blurry vision, it doesn't exactly hurt as I flump to the carpet, because Virgil had enough grip on my elbow to slow the impact. My brother still ends up on the floor next to me though, and I'm torn between full-blown annoyance at my wobbly knees and the reason for them, and amusement at the entirely astonished look on his face, but it's the irritation that unfortunately wins out.

Ignoring (or more like tolerating) Virgil's hands suddenly running over my upper body to make sure I've not gone and injured myself, I let out a cry of utter frustration, irrational tears pricking my eyelids as my mood abruptly plummets somewhere past the floor beneath me.

It's probably a result of trekking to and from the bathroom, and all the stretching and standing I did in between, but the exhaustion I'm feeling, coupled with the emotional issues I've been trying not to think about is enough to makes the event of falling over feel much bigger than it should really be.

I cough harshly and deeply as my breath catches in my throat with my cry; sharp and choking, and I gasp as the mucus gurgles and fizzes deep in my chest. I swallow the hard knot of phlegm this time, instead of spitting it out, and though I can feel Virgil's eyes on me in disapproval (having my stomach full of sputum doesn't leave any room for food, apparently), I find I don't give any fucks about that right now.

I feel like lately I'm on an emotional see-saw, and I hate this feeling of unstable and precarious fragility; as though any thought can send me flying out into the never-nevers, or toppling off the edge of a sheer-sided cliff. This sort of situation is occurring far too frequently to be of much comfort to me, but it really appears that there's nothing I can do about it. I just hate the way it makes me feel; it's grating on my nerves, and making me feel as raw-edged as if someone had taken them and abraded the ends with sandpaper.

I pull my knees up to my chest, pushing away the vertigo, and bury my face in my arms, fighting the unpleasant urge to bawl like a child. No-one would care if I did, I've every right to fall to pieces if I want, but the truth is that I still want to hold onto my dignity and my sense of control, even though everything is falling apart.

I don't want to cry in front of Virgil either, not because I think it's shameful, but because my brother is dealing with his own overwhelming issues, and there's no way I want to burden him with mine as well, not when his episode from before shows that he's clearly still struggling to adjust.

Virgil seems to realise that, somehow, and even in spite of the way I've curled myself into an upright foetal position, he sits still and silent at my side, as though waiting for me to be able to get it together again.

I'm struck again by the knowledge that he knows at least something of how I'm feeling at the moment, and I'm forever grateful that he knows me well enough that I just want to sit and try not to sink, and he's just being here, strong as a pillar. He emulates Scott so much, and I feel overwhelmed at how much I love my siblings for the support they've given me.

It's so much closer and more real this time, somehow. The memories of the times I was sick before were more of a tooth and nail battle than the race it is this time to get to the finish line. We're pressed for time now; the avenues we have to try are so much more limited, and that thought scares me more than I'm willing to admit.

I shudder again, and have to resist the urge to punch something, biting my lip as I try not to cry, because I know how much I'm hurting them.

I can feel the panic riding on the coattails of exhaustion, as it pulls at the innards of my stomach and chest. I hate that I'm at the mercy of my feelings; tired of collapsing in a heap at the tiniest of provocations, sick of being sick and afraid of being scared.

I close my eyes and try to breathe past the constriction in my throat, my hands and shoulders shaking as I feel Virgil's fingertips rub tentatively between my shoulder blades. I don't know how he is able to keep things together so well when it comes to taking care of us, Scott either; but I've realised that I do enough of that myself, pushing things away by helping someone else with their problems.

It takes a while, but I manage to talk myself down from the ledge I'm on, hating the desperation I can sense in my own thoughts and emotions. It's been so long since the depression has reared its ugly head as badly as this, and I hate the fact that there's such a delicate balance there that affects each and every tiny movement I make.

I hate the fact it's entirely out of my hands, the effect it has on my psyche; that it makes me feel so out of control. Like the thought of falling without a parachute, it's infinitely terrifying, and that just makes me feel even worse, not knowing if or how hard I'm going to be hurt when I finally hit the ground.

Once I've calmed myself sufficiently enough that it doesn't feel like I'm going to fly apart, I raise my head, meeting Virgil's gaze unexpectedly.

He doesn't say a word, acknowledging that I don't want to talk about it, but instead gets to his feet, and holds out a hand for me. I comply, grabbing his wrist, and I smile weakly as I'm drawn up into a standing position once again.

I clasp his shoulder in gratitude, even as I lean against him, tiredness slipping through me again, thanking God that Gordon has obviously gone elsewhere, because there is no way I'd let him see how much my mood swings (for lack of a better description) are affecting me. I'm sure he knows that they're there, that I'm feeling so frightened of what's happening to me, but he far from needs to see the proof of it.

Maybe it's stupid of me to want to protect my little brothers like this, to try and shield them from the reality of what is happening to me, that I'm dying, but even in spite of the experience they've just been through with me trapped and almost suffocating on my own lungs in that hospital bed, I still want them to know that I'm still trying to fight this thing with all I've got, even though it's currently looking like it's a futile endeavour.

##

It's far from being unexpected, given my nap from earlier, but I find myself awake in the early hours of the morning.

It happens suddenly, the awakening, but I'm still surprised to find myself staring at the glow-in-the-dark stars stuck to the ceiling above my bed. They've been there for the last twenty years, and they're as much a part of my life as the fact that Dad was an astronaut and that I have five brothers and a mother, a grandfather and a grandmother, and that the sky is blue.

The fact that one of my brothers died before I knew him, and that Mom has been gone for over eight years now doesn't matter. I know those facts, among many others, as well as I know my own name, and it's the same with the room where I did most of my growing up.

The exact details of it escape me at the moment, as I don't have my glasses on yet, but I've memorised every corner of my bedroom; from the dim outline of the window, then the navy blue wall straight ahead where the bureau rests against, and across to the bookshelf on the far side of the room. My old desktop computer is still perched on the desk at the end of the bed with the rickety chair, and the closet door still contains the canvas of the Orion Nebula that Virgil painted for my fifteenth birthday; shining in the pale moonlight streaming from beyond the curtains.

I imagine it all with my eyes closed; the room has been almost exactly the same since Scott moved into the attic when I was twelve. Although the spot where his bed once rested is now filled with the canvas-sheeted form of my first-ever telescope, and the packed-cardboard box of my astronomy books and star-charts, the memories of the room - both before and after still sit snug in my mind like the familiar pages of a well-thumbed book. Unchangeable and comfortable, despite the many weeks I was laid up in here, unable to get out of bed because I was so ill.

The time spent in my childhood bedroom allowed me to really think about what I wanted to do if I was to get past my illness, and in part – staying up most of the night with nausea and fever with Dad, allowed me to really want to reach for the stars and create my computer and walk the path that I'd created in my dreams. The personalisation of my room, and the freedom and ability to look out of my window and see that path in those stars was what had allowed me to realise that I could have a future if I wanted.

Thinking back on my small meltdown from earlier this evening, I know that I need to get back into that sort of mindset if I want to get anywhere, but the truth of the matter is that it's so damn bad that I struggle just to think about the next hour, let alone consider what could be coming tomorrow, or even next week, when it really comes down to it.

It's a frightening proposition, not being able to at least _plan_ what is going to happen, it's all out of my hands now, and I don't like that at all.

Musing through those recollections as I am, I'm still half-asleep really, and am very well inclined to go back there again, but I realise exactly why I've been roused to think so existentially about my room in the first place, when I hear a muffled cry, coming from what seems to be the ceiling above my head.

_Scott_, I think; frowning as I rub my eyes and slowly drag myself into a seated position, using the headboard the way the nurses taught me. I stand up slowly, jamming my feet into my slippers and yanking the blanket off my bed to ward against the midnight air, before shuffling across the room with the intention of going to my brother's room to sort him out.

He'd seemed fine earlier, all but ignoring my question about who he had been speaking to on the phone. He'd seemed gleeful almost afterwards, sharing a secretive, nearly scheming look with Dad that none of the rest of us seemed to understand. He'd ribbed Alan about his new retainer, and then consoled the kid when he realised how much Al's mouth was hurting after the wire had been tightened, and had even gone so far as to challenge Gordon to a game of Rummy after the meal, which having the Tracy Twist rules as it did, went for a good two hours longer than any game a normal person would've played.

I don't know what the outcome of that had turned out to be, but I know that it had probably been something Gordy hadn't liked, judging from the outraged yelp that had resulted from Scott's teasing when they'd finally called it quits not long after eight.

It takes me much longer than I initially anticipated, but I finally get to the top of the attic stairs; the moonlight filtering through the skylight in the ceiling to lend the floorboards an almost ethereal glow. It also allows me to find my way to Scott's bedroom door without worry of falling ass over tea-kettle, a significant plus in my mind, seeing as I really shouldn't be doing this on my own in the first place.

I don't bother knocking on the door, because I can still hear the whimpering sounds of Scott's nightmares through the wood, so I push it quietly open, and shuffle my sock-clad way over to his bed, glad for once that my only older brother is a neat-freak and doesn't leave stuff lying about on the ground like Gordon and Alan. Their room is an accident waiting to happen.

Stopping at the side of Scott's bed, I can see that he must have fallen asleep reading, because the book by Tom Wolfe: _The Right Stuff_, is perched haphazardly on the edge of the mattress, the blankets tangled around my brother's rigidly-shifting form in the lamplight. The sloping ceiling is low enough that I have to be careful not to hit my head as I stand up from picking up his book, and I study Scott's face as I place the novel on his bedside table.

I've never gotten over how well Scott manages to hide his worries and insecurities from the rest of us; how he is able to tamp everything down behind the impenetrable mask he's always managed to keep in place. I'd blame his Air Force training for it, if not for the fact that this is how Scott has always been; even before the accident. It's just more amplified than it otherwise would've been, after he had been trapped in the avalanche with Mom and Alan.

He always looks so much younger and more exposed when he sleeps, and the wall he builds during the day clearly gets broken down at night, which clearly explains the nightmares that have been continuing since the attack on Thunderbird Five.

I remember listening to him yell in his sleep back at home, and the reality of knowing that he was carrying around his pistol to protect himself in some obscure way sort of terrified me, but I had been too exhausted to get up out of bed and go to him. Dad's room is on the other side of the house, both in the villa and here, and despite the fact that I'm still sick, I'm really the only one who is close enough to be able to hear him and do something to help.

I reach down to gently shake Scott's shoulder, leaning heavily on the bed as my legs threaten to give out after the hike up the attic stairs. Scott snaps instantly awake, grabbing my wrist hard enough that I know I'll have a bruise, his eyes wide and wild from the nightmare I know I've woken him from.

"John?" He asks, squinting at me in confusion; his expression vulnerable and weary all at once.

His hair is matted and damp from the tossing and turning he's done, and he runs a hand wearily through it as he recognises me, releasing my arm and slumping back onto the pillows with his eyes firmly closed, as if to block out the terrors I know are haunting him. I want to help him get rid of them, but I have no idea of what they are, so I'm at a loss at how to help.

"What are you doing up here? Did I wake you up?" He sounds unbearably guilty, and I fight the urge to smack him senseless.

"You were having a nightmare Scott. I came up here because you didn't sound like you were enjoying yourself." I say, dryly, ignoring the apologetic look in his eyes, knowing that I _will_ end up getting mad if I allow myself to acknowledge his idiocy.

"You shouldn't have come up the stairs," He frowns, tugging me down onto the bed as he shifts towards the wall to make room. "You could've hurt yourself."

I sigh in resignation, knowing what he's trying to do, and having no intention of letting him accomplish it. Not this time. "I didn't and I'm fine, and we're talking about you Scooter, so could you try not to take evasive action? It's me. The kids aren't going to hear about anything unless you want me to tell them, so can you answer me one question. Please?"

Scott's eyes are more violet than blue in the lamp light, and the tousled look of the lengthening hair around his face makes him seem so much more vulnerable than he has for a long time. The muscles along his jaw tighten, and I can see that there are cracks appearing in his façade of impenetrability that he almost never allows during his waking hours, appearing as though something is pushing from the other side. I feel like I'm taking advantage of the barely-awake state of mind my brother is in, but I see the almost relieved look on his face, and I wonder if this is what he's needed this entire time.

He nods, and I ask him what's bothering him; knowing that somehow, this time I'm going to get a proper answer.

He begins to speak, and the words are as quiet and raw as anything I've ever heard come out of his mouth. Not even the memory of him crying as he told me the news about the secondary cancer was quite as significant as this. I grip his shoulder tightly and he smiles grimly at me in response, his eyes sad.

"I'm just… scared, John. I thought for so long that this was all over for you, that when Dad said that when you reached the five-year mark without having a relapse, you were considered cured. I'd squared all of those memories of you being so sick into this dusty, locked box in my head, and just seeing you there in that bed, it terrified me."

I can see something in Scott's eyes that pleads me to not interrupt, that tells me if I am to break his stride now he's gathered up the courage to tell me what he's feeling, that I'll never get it out of him.

I nod, gesturing for him to continue in what he's saying, settling onto the bed beside him and smiling affectionately as he unconsciously wraps his arm around my shoulders, pulling the blanket up over my chest like he did to Gordon and Alan when they were small.

"I thought that I'd gotten it all out of my system when I did this…" He runs his fingers over the cast on his hand, "but I've come to realise that it's not just the kids and Dad and your health and Virgil's that's worrying me, it's something else, and I've sat on it for so long I'm not exactly sure how to explain it."

Scott suddenly hesitates, twisting his blanket in his hand, and I'm not sure whether I should prompt him or not, afraid that if I speak I'm going to derail whatever his train of thought is, and prevent him saying what he feels he needs to.

I needn't have worried though, because he takes a deep breath, as though he's about to plunge into icy water.

"What did you feel when we were up on 'Five, John? And you realised that we probably wouldn't be coming home, that we were most likely going to die up there?"

I look at him in confusion, trying to work out where he is coming from; my brain struggling through the hazy memories caused by concussion and pain, sticking with the conclusion that it's not just the thought that we were going to die that he is worried about, but something else, something that I should probably know but just can't remember.

Scott doesn't seem to be expecting an answer though, because he powers on doggedly, his voice a tired drone against the silence of midnight, and the beating of our hearts.

"If you're thinking that we'd be trapped up there, dead and isolated, with no way out, and no chance of saving ourselves or each other, then that's what I was feeling, and it terrified me John. It's not that we had to be rescued by Alan, it's not that at all. I'm so proud of what he and the kids did, I can't express it in words. It's that I couldn't save us. I'm responsible for all of you, and I was trapped in something that I couldn't fix. I couldn't do anything. I couldn't do anything to save my family like I wasn't able to save Tom and Paul."

**A/N: Please review and let me know what you think! Thanks for reading!**

**- Pyre. Xx**


	4. The Things We Cannot Change

**A/N: Actually got this updated within the month this time! Go me! It's a teensy bit shorter than usual, but I couldn't work out a way to make it longer without making it **_**really **_**long. Hopefully I'll be able to get a bit more crammed in next time. **

**Enjoy.**

**Disclaimer: If not for Gerry and Sylvia Anderson, I would not be able to play in this wonderful playground, so no; I do not own the Thunderbirds.**

**Also, any and all medical information mentioned herein is found on the internet. I do not claim to have any medical knowledge at all, and any inconsistencies found must be taken with a grain of salt.**

Scott looks at his hands, pausing to gather his nerve again, I have a sudden, complete flash of understanding, and a pang of sympathy as to why he is still so knotted up over the incident on 'Five.

The names in particular are a dead giveaway; even with the secrecy about the mission Scott'd been on when he got shot down in Afghanistan four years ago. We'd never met the two men, whose lives had been taken in that incident, but Scott had regularly sent letters from the McConnell Air Base where he'd been stationed at the time, and accompanying one of the first we'd received, was a photo of the three of them standing in their flight suits in front of the mess building.

Tom Clarkson and Paul Hanley had been his co-pilot and navigator respectively. The former was a twenty-seven-year-old Ivy League graduate that hailed from California, and the latter, one of Scott's age-mates from the Reserve Officer Training Corps Program, back from when he was still at Yale.

All three men had apparently been remarkably close, but then the two older men had died in the incident that had nearly cost Scott his life, and then almost permanently crippled his left leg, leaving him with a long-standing issue with aircraft of any kind. He'd hidden it well in front of Virgil and the kids, but Dad and I knew of the panic attacks that he'd endured for a long time afterwards. I think that's one of the few times I've truly been afraid for my brother's wellbeing.

It took a long time for Scott to get past that experience, but judging from his most recent response, (and the times I've seen him with his revolver recently), he's obviously holding onto something from those long-suppressed memories that is rather significant.

While I've been ruminating, Scott appears to have gathered himself into something resembling readiness, because when I move my eyes to meet his gaze again, he smiles weakly and rubs the base of his fingers firmly from where they protrude from beneath the cast. His hand must be bothering him again. I swear he's going to get arthritis badly by the time he's Dad's age if he keeps breaking the bones in that hand, not that the first time was his fault, really.

His violet eyes are burning brightly with something that I can't identify quite yet, but it appears that it's going to be a long time in coming, because without warning, Scott turns on his side and buries his face in his pillow, harsh sobs suddenly wracking his frame as the seemingly cathartic effect of speaking the names of his fallen friends lets loose a deluge of emotion.

I'm obviously startled, because this is the second time in a week I've seen my brother cry like this, so there's a bit of hesitation on my part as I wrap my arm around his shoulders, because I am really not the sort of person to actively offer physical comfort. If the need arises though, I will push aside my own awkwardness for the sake of someone I love, and though I might not often admit it, I do truly love each and every one of my brothers.

I'm not really sure how I can go about comforting him however, because what can you say to someone who's lost their friends to something you can never understand?

I can understand the loss bit, in part, but not the situation it occurred in. We all can because of what happened with Mom, but I didn't know either of Scott's comrades, and nor do I know what it's like in a warzone. What my brother went through, first having been trapped in the downed jet, and then tortured and taunted continuously for almost three weeks, it's unimaginable, and it's really no surprise that my brother has at least some remaining issues.

It was why he was discharged ultimately from the 'Force, although he and Dad played upon his left leg being too badly injured for him to stay in service. It means that he has to pretend to favour it when he's out in public, due to his high profile status with Tracy Aeronautics, which sucks on a personal basis, (because Scott hates having to play the part of 'War Veteran'), but it's a good cover for IR, and that's just the way it is. He grins and bears it, Scott, and I'm proud of him, much as it's a little un-manly to admit it at times. He knows it and wouldn't want pity, and nor does he like talking about things that make him feel weak, much as this current situation proves.

He doesn't get the chance that he needs to explain further though, much as it appears that he is intending to, because he's interrupted by the sudden, loud pounding of feet up the stairs.

I've got a split second to allow for the annoyance of Scott's continuity of speech getting disrupted, along with a pang of jealousy for the swiftness of movement that the person has for themselves, before the door is flung open so roughly that it bounces off the wall behind it.

Scott is already vaulting over my legs and zipping across the room, even as Alan bursts in, red-faced and totally out of breath from his obvious sprint up the stairs.

"Scott," he pants, leaning heavily against the doorjamb, his pyjama bottoms riding low on his hips, and his dark grey t-shirt (an old one of Gordon's, weirdly enough; two sizes too big) hanging off of his left shoulder. "Virge—"

I furrow my brow, a little confused and worried at the same time. I'd ask 'what's the matter?' but Scott, already 'there' in terms of being all thinky, has slotted the pieces together so much more quickly than I have.

When he asks Alan for clarification, the kid blurts out something that confuses me even more, not mentioning the almost-hysteria lacing my younger brother's tone. "He won't wake up!"

It must be the time of night, but I'm sort of lost as to why they're worried about the guy being asleep, because not only is it –I look at the clock on the nightstand– one in the morning, (God, I'm going to be exhausted for my radiotherapy tomorrow), but also that Virgil sleeps like a log, and it's only the proximity of the speaker for the klaxon that wakes him for the midnight calls at all.

I can't see right now what the fuss is about, but I can feel a distinct sense of unease in my gut that means I should know the significance of Alan's statement, but I haven't quite gotten around to connecting the dots, not as yet anyway.

It's too late to ask for clarification though, because both Alan and Scott have taken off down the attic stairs, leaving me staring nonplussed at the darkened landing where my youngest brother had been standing only a second ago. Thanks for leaving me behind guys, really. I appreciate it.

My back has stiffened again in the short time I've been sitting here; the exertion of climbing up the stairs in my exhausted state stretching the overtaxed muscles and seizing up the area around the top of my pelvis. Because of the time it takes me to stretch out the kinks, it's at least three minutes until I'm able to get to my feet and shuffle across the room.

I know that I probably shouldn't try to descend the stairs alone; the bouts of vertigo I've been experiencing as a result of the weakness from the infection pose too much risk of an accident if I am on an uneven surface, like particularly steep attic steps. I do it anyway, however, because although I don't know why my brothers have freaked out yet, I can still feel this nagging annoyance in the back of my mind that tells me that I should know. It's irritating.

It's not until I've carefully picked my way down the short corridor to the top of the stairs, that I realise exactly what that reason is. My concentration snaps as it bursts into my brain, and in my distraction, my right foot slips sideways in my slipper on the floorboards. My sense of equilibrium throws me off balance as I try to compensate for the shift in weight, and I smack heavily into the wall with my bad side as I feel my ankle twist painfully beneath me.

A sharp breath whistles through my teeth at the tearing of overly-stretched ligaments, combining with that of newly-forming bruises. I let out an inarticulate groan as I thump the floor for the second time within six hours, and close my eyes in a mixture of pain and desperation as I hold my throbbing ankle, ignoring the wave of protest that emanates from my lower spine from the impact.

I'm falling apart at the seams. How flipping wonderful.

I find it ironic that only ten minutes ago, Scott told me that I shouldn't have climbed the stairs, despite my safe arrival, but now of course, on the way back, I've taken a tumble. Figures.

I desperately need to get to Virgil, (because low blood sugars while a diabetic is sleeping is bad; a major understatement to be utterly frank) but with no-one around to help me take it easy the rest of the way, and with an ankle that I can already feel beginning to swell beneath my questing fingers, I know that I'm rather stuck for the time being.

I grit my teeth, refusing to sit here and wait while my brother is in trouble, despite the fact that even if I manage to get down to the ground level before all the chaos is over, I'll only be in the way. Makes me feel pretty useless, if I'm being truthful, and if there's one thing that I hate, it's being unable to do things on my own and do anything for the people I care about.

Sighing, and knowing that it's probably going to be all for nothing, when one of them inevitably realise they've left me up here, I nevertheless pull the sock off of my left foot, and pull it onto my injured one to give it a bit of padding until I can get it strapped up properly. The bare skin on my left foot will hopefully allow for a bit of friction as I go down, so I don't end up on my ass again.

Biting my lip, I shuffle over to the left side of the staircase, putting my hand out and using the railing to pull myself painfully to my feet. The ankle takes my weight, but protests heavily at the burden, sending zinging lines of heat shooting up towards my knee. I've at least mildly sprained it, that much is clear, which is going to hamper my movement even more (oh, goody), but at least it's not broken. That would _really_ make me happy.

I don't make it much further than two steps down, when a voice comes from somewhere down near the darkness at the landing to the second floor.

"John Glenn Tracy, what on earth do you think you're doing?"

The person speaks with a mixture of incredulity and concern, and I have to admit that I probably look quite a sight; one foot un-socked, clinging to the embedded wood along the wall to support my weight against my shaking legs. I peer near-sightedly towards their indistinct form, and I hazard a guess at it being either Dad or Scott; their voices sound incredibly similar at times.

My mental half-question is answered as whoever-it-is hurries up the last eight or nine steps towards me, and I grin sheepishly at my father, even as my rising concern for Virgil makes my blood drain from my face as I remember.

"Dad," I croak, grabbing his sleeve as he goes to tuck his arm behind my back, panic making my voice break. "Is Virgil okay? Scott and Alan—"

"John." Dad turns my face to look at his, and swallow heavily as I see the concern in his eyes, but I'm unsure at whom it is directed.

"Your brother will be fine, I promise. His levels dropped rather dramatically, but Scott has it well in hand. Alan's just a little bit freaked out at the moment. The whole thing probably happened because Virgil's body still isn't quite settled into having less insulin being produced, and is still creating spurts of it. Remember the doctor's explanation of the 'Honeymoon Period'?

I nod, the blurry memories ghosting along the edges of my mind. The Honeymoon Period is the months-long stretch of time that Virgil's pancreas might still be producing little bits of insulin, which would mess up his numbers. That state apparently stops eventually, and then the body has to change again to accommodate for none of the hormone being secreted at all.

It's said to be one of the most difficult parts of the diagnosis, because at times a person would apparently feel quite normal but utterly horrible at others. I know that my brother won't want the sympathy, much the same as I don't want it for my illness, but I feel it anyway, and an immense pride at the strength Virgil is showing in the face of something so incredibly life-changing. He only got officially discharged from being an outpatient two days before me, but if his blood sugar levels are fluctuating so continuously, then I can't help but worry that he's going to end up right up back in there again.

My father helps me safely down the stairs, glancing frowningly at my limping gait, but not saying anything. Yet. "Virgil actually sent me up here to get you; seems he was pretty annoyed that Scott left you behind in the first place."

I crack a grin at that, knowing the power of Virgil's glares only too well, but I still won't be entirely satisfied he's okay until I can see him for myself.

My foot is really hurting me now, and I guess it's showing on my face, because once we've made our way down the hallway, Dad steers me into my bedroom, silently gesturing me to explain why I've got my socks on the way I do. I grin sheepishly, and remove them slowly, only to wince as the injured muscles pull against each other. _Owww._

Dad switched the light in on our way in, so there's nothing to conceal the angry red and slightly purple colour of pre-bruising around the ankle bone. He prods lightly at the discolouration, and I bite back a curse as his fingers press against the most painful part of the foot, pulling my leg lengthwise across the side of the bed from where I'm reclined, ordering me to roll it in a slow circle, to test the range of movement.

I'm able to do it, but I'm gritting my teeth the entire time, as the tightened ligaments complain. I snort to myself as Dad comments on the fact that I've got a bruise. I've got them everywhere I bump myself, first and foremost as an effect from the thrombocytopenia, but also because of the numerous IV lines I've been stuck with over the past three weeks. With the blood condition, they're taking much longer than usual to heal. I look and feel like a junkie both; with the tiny pinprick bruises on my arms, and then with how dozy I am on medication lately. Not the best state of being, I can tell you.

Dad went walkabout when I wasn't looking apparently, because when I look up again, he's reappeared with a bag of frozen peas, wrapped in a towel, and an ace bandage.

I scowl at him slightly, shaking my head, because despite his assurances I still want to see Virgil, but he shakes his head at me, setting both items down on the bed, perching on the mattress beside my foot.

"You're staying off of it John, at least until morning. And don't you dare try and tell me its morning now, because I just want to point out that the sun is not up yet, and that is what the entire world for centuries now has classed as morning."

Dammit. Dad knows me far too well for me to be able to trip him up with mere technicalities.

I nod at him, reluctantly accepting the fact; knowing that I'll have to pester Virgil when I get up in the morning, but at the moment I'm happy that Dad's here at least, assuring me that he's alright. Virgil has to be, if Dad is ribbing me over my numerous idiosyncrasies.

It put me in mind again of the times when I was younger, and we'd had these sorts of conversations all the time; having arguments about things with two extremely different, but both equally plausible attributes. It comforts me in some strange way that despite the fact that this battle is different, there's enough familiarity in our relationship that we can converse like this.

We might be going about this battle a different way, but then again, compared to others fighting the kind of cancer I have, my case had been different from the start.

I'd had one 'minor' relapse about three months following the conclusion of my initial nine-month battle, but that had been addressed with an eight-week course of radiation therapy, to get rid of the small cluster of infected nodes beneath my jawline that Dr Kingston had found in the first of the two-month follow-up checks following the announcement of my remission.

Dad'd moved up to Boston to live near the college, and had done face-to-face work with his employees at the burgeoning TA branch there, so I hadn't been alone that time either.

That was great, as I'd decided that I wanted to keep going on with my studies while getting the treatment, instead of moving all the way back to Lawrence and missing out on classes when I'd put so much effort into my early graduation.

That had been a considerable comfort to me, being able to have him there, seeing as Sherry had been recuperating from her accident at around the same time. She'd not been around for moral support as much as she'd wanted to, and I'd understood that, but it still hurt that I'd not been around for her either, much like this time.

I need to call her tomorrow and remind her again to take enough photos for me to wallpaper my room. Perhaps I can get Scott or Dad to go and set up a video link so I can watch her marry Sky, her fiancé. I'm really desperate not to miss it.

I can tell that Dad has been watching me the entire time I've been thinking, and I'm not sure, because I'm getting rapidly sleepy (damn, he's right again in his non-speaky inflection way), but it looks like he knows what I'm thinking about.

He doesn't give me any clues, as he puts the fastener on the bandage, now wrapped firmly around my ankle, but I can see, through sleepy eyes, that he's definitely thinking about something of interest as he places the frozen package on my aching foot.

I don't bother asking him though, both because I'm beginning to drop off just sitting here, and I know that he's almost as exhausted as I am, and probably isn't collected enough to survive any interrogation I can be bothered to dredge up. I'll let him sleep, and I'll bug Scott about his feelings and his phone call again tomorrow. It's a little brother's right to be annoying, after all.

I feel Dad pull the blankets over me again as my eyes close of their own accord, feel him pull my hat down over my forehead just that little bit more, and I smile sleepily, oddly comforted despite the tangle of emotions I can feel, ever-present inside me; worry at Scott and his wall, Virgil and his stress, and Gordon and Alan, and their feelings of inadequacy. I'll deal with them in the morning.

There's always tomorrow, no matter how much it might feel like there's not at times. I might not get too many tomorrows, the way I'm going, but the least I can do is have faith that my family will, at least.

**A/N: So John's in a bit of a funny mood today. He's had to watch one of his role models practically fall to pieces, despite the knowledge that Scott is just as human as him, and then he's had to face the reality that though he might want to, he just can't protect Virgil like he used to. **

**This chapter was a wee bit maudlin but I hope that it communicated the things I wanted it to. I'd also appreciate any and all concrit on how you thought this chapter went, because it was a struggle to get things out this time around, and it still doesn't look right. It's a bit late at night where I am, so it's also a bit hard to see if I've missed any spelling errors, so I'd also be grateful if people could point out any you come across.**

**Thanks for all the marvellous support everyone, and I hope that you enjoyed the chapter. I'll try and get the new one up when I can.**

**- Pyre. Xx **


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